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Late one morning, sometime in the late 1970’s, when David C. Fischer was in his very late twenties and residing in Honolulu, married but not yet a father, employed in a profession for which he sometimes was required to wear a coat and tie, he found himself in a parking structure elevator, going down, with only one other passenger, a haole woman in business attire, a woman unknown to Fischer but seemingly close to him in age. One or the other of them had pushed the button for the ground floor. The descent was brief, six floors at most, and no stops interrupted the journey, but in that little time, Fischer formed some impressions of the lady: she looked tired and perhaps worried or sad. He noticed, too, that she had extraordinarily lovely hair, lustrous and light-colored but not blonde, pulled into braids from a center part and gathered into a single braid at her neck.
As the elevator reached its destination, a bell chimed as you might expect, but the doors remained closed a moment longer than you would think. In that unmeasured space of time the woman’s eyes met Fischer’s and he spoke: “You have beautiful hair,” he quietly said.
Of course the haole woman knew that that was so. Undoubtedly she put pride and care into those tresses. Surely friends and strangers had commented on them before. Even so, as the elevator doors began to part, the woman’s eyes brightened and her mouth opened to reveal a smile of large teeth and healthy gums. “Thank you!” she replied.
So far as Fischer is aware, he never again encountered that woman of the braided hair. But the appreciative smile that she shared has forever encouraged him to dare say something trite when in the moment it seems right.
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